Drabbles and Short Pieces
by SleepingSeeker
Summary: An ongoing collection of stories based mostly on prompts from Tumblr, Stealthystories and DA. Some just inspired by music. Will be rated between K-T for swears, violence and some content. A variety of genres will be presented with my darker stuff most likely going into a separate collection just for T and up in the future. Hope you enjoy. Please Review. xo
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** First in a series of short pieces. This one in particular is set in a blend of 2k3 and 2k12 verses. A number of years later - Urged by his younger brother and the promise of one too many romance movies, Donatello seizes his last best opportunity to reveal his heart's deepest secret. Comfort comes from an unlikely source. Raphael, Donatello, April

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_"Hope, in reality, is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man." -Friedrich Nietzsche_

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**In Time**

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In the time it took him to climb the fire escape, sweating calloused palms, and dash across the roof, shaking legs, she had already left the chapel. His aching feet staggered to a halt on the opposite building, a dry cleaners; steam rising in tall columns from the multiple exhaust vents and chimneys dotting the roof; creating a halo of man-made clouds hovering over the structure. Like a cartoon character feeling blue, the steam cloud hung over his head. His alone.

The guests were chatting happily, filing out from the wooden double doors of the small church down the stone steps to their respective cars parked along the street. The hems of bridesmaids' dresses barely brushed against the rough surface of the sidewalk; shushing the ground like a teacher scolding chattering children. Heels of polished black shoes tip tapped; making a song of walking; a secret code even Donatello could not decipher. Compared to their suits and fine clothes, he was a filthy shadow, covered in grime and old scars and frayed padding. Car doors opened. Closed. And he stood, blank with the shock of his own late arrival.

Out of breath. Out of luck. Burning lungs and a mind full of regret, Donatello collapsed to his bottom with a rough grunt. Though it was his own reluctance to accept the opportunity when it had surfaced, urged on by all people, Michelangelo, to hurry and try to catch her before it was too late, he chose instead to blame his tardiness on his aging body. Had he slowed down that much over time? If this had been ten years ago . . . even _five_, maybe he wouldn't have taken so long to get here.

He looked about helplessly. The opportunity to grasp and squeeze, to bite and devour, as Mikey had put it, had slipped free. His one true chance. His last best chance. His moment of truth. His glorious last-ditch exclamation of true love for whatever it was worth was gone. Gone forever. Gone for good.

April was heading for her honeymoon with Casey. Heading for the airport. For their future.

And like the past brushed aside, Donatello remained. Obsolete and discarded. The truth was, it had been too late for years now. What was he thinking, rushing here like a fool? Did he really think it would be like all the recycled romantic trash that the movies continued to shove down their throats? That all it would take would be a moment of exclamation, a glorious shout of his deepest secret, a whispered plea laid bare to her in her moment of doubting the path she was about to step on. How could he have ever thought she'd consider him? When she hadn't for all these years? A hollow feeling filled him from foot to skull, one that just couldn't be dealt with by any rational reasoning so he sat there, like a lost child, like an animal discovering too late that the latch doesn't open from this side . . .

The sky darkened, blue, bluer, violet then opening up to inky vast emptiness above him. The stars could not compete with the light pollution, so the sky yawned blank and expansive. Soft footsteps approached and Don knew he should move or brace for an attack or even dash for cover. But he couldn't move. It wasn't for the numbness he'd developed in his legs for sitting like that for so long, but rather, he had no will to move. No motivation. What was the point? He hoped it was a horde of some of the last remaining Foot soldiers loyal to the ghost of Shredder that had discovered him. Maybe they could do him a favor and put him out of his misery. His hopes were dashed as the familiar form of his brother sat down next to him. The sound of joints protesting filled the air and he finally settled in with a soft grunt.

The two of them sat like that for a while. Neither moving nor speaking. The sound of the city at night surrounded them with feral noises of grumbling traffic, squealing tires, harsh laughter, lewd comments and the shrill call of an ambulance racing by. Some things remained the same despite the passage of time. His brother's stubborn silence was one of them. As always, Don found it grating on his nerves. He felt the need to fill the silence between them. He spoke the first thing that came to him.

"I missed it," Donatello croaked.

His brother gave him a sidelong glance before dropping it back to stare ahead. The church sat in the gloom. Twin stained glass windows peered back at them with a curious if not unimpressed expression. Abruptly, Don stood up. He immediately regretted the action. His feet shot pins and needles up through his calves and he shook his legs out one after another.

"Dammit," he muttered.

He turned to go when he noticed his sibling had not moved. He fidgeted where he stood. Growing impatient, he shifted his still tingling feet. He looked over his shoulder, suddenly eager to be rid of this place and the shadow of the looming church, glowering at him from across the street, silent as his brother but full of unspoken accusations. His rough voice made Don jump.

"You deserve better."

Donatello's mouth dropped open. Of all the things he'd expected to hear, that was not one of them. He felt an irrational surge of anger and defensive protest go through him. He clenched his jaw and took a step towards his brother before stopping and considering. He spun on his heel and stomped a few steps away. Hands clutched at the strap going across his chest.

"What are you . . . you don't . . . how can you . . ." he stammered and flustered, spun back around.

With a heavy sigh, Raphael pushed against his thighs and climbed to stand. His knees creaked and popped with the motion. The scars of too many battles barely survived marred the surface of his carapace and when he turned the damage was more severe. It was a sight that Donatello was used to more or less, he had more than a few of his own, but here in the yellow light of the street lamps below, the ridges and gashes, the criss-crossing hatch marks that told of their rough life and the struggle to survive seemed exaggerated. Vulgar and gruesome. But mostly, it seemed wrong. So wrong. Raphael gave him a slow blink and fixed upon Donatello a steady look with a single amber eye. His head was tilted to one side, the patch hidden in shadow.

"You heard me."

Donatello gave a sour look as he turned his face away. "What would you know?"

"I know that ya passed up opportunities while waitin' for that one to come around. I know that she only ever cared about you in a way that wouldn't satisfy ya. Never saw ya fer what ya were."

He moved slowly to stand near Don. He turned his head slightly, glanced at him and swept his watery gaze down. Donatello dimly wondered if his brother was in pain again. He could always tell by the way his eye watered like that.

"And what's that?" Don managed, almost too afraid to hear it.

Raph huffed. "Someone worth lovin'."

The lump formed in Don's throat and they stood there awkwardly for a moment before he cleared it.

"Th-Thanks, Raph."

He wanted to say more, but there were never that many words spared between the two of them. In fact, this was the most Donatello had heard Raph say in a very long time. They shuffled towards the fire escape, heading towards home. Raph gave him a brief pat on his shoulder followed by a little shove.

"It'll get better in time, Egghead."

"How'd you get so smart about this stuff?" Don choked out between wiping the corner of his eye and clearing his throat again.

He huffed. "Too many years of watchin' my brothers hurtin' over women." He shook his head. A sad expression darkened his face. "Told Leo the same thing 'bout Karai. Couple years ago."

Don exchanged a long look with Raph. "Huh."

He chewed on that piece of information as a melancholy emotion swept through him at the thought of Leonardo. How he was always silently watching, bringing up the rear of their scouting runs, always waiting, no doubt hoping with all his heart, for any sign that she'd changed her mind; thinking he was hiding his feelings from the rest of them, when they all knew of his pain. The twisting anguish of that lingering hope. It was written in his eyes, exposed in the subtle turn of his head, as if listening, when all there was to hear was the wind whipping over the roof tops. Nothing more.

He decided that he would not end up like their eldest brother. He would let this futile hope go. He had to. The burden was pointless to carry forward. This pain would lessen in time, he just needed to get used to the burden of longing being lifted from his shoulders. He knew he would, in time.

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**A/N:**What do you think?


	2. No Antidote

_"Every poison is not bitter, but definitely all kill."_ -M.F. Moonzajer

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**No Antidote**

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"He would have loved this."

Amber eyes, worn and tired, turned to him, filled with unimaginable pain. If he nodded in response, it was too small a movement to see. Donatello waited for more, but knew Raphael was too choked on the tide of emotion carrying his ability to speak out beyond the breakers. Donatello watched him carefully. The sofa's wooden support creaked as he got up brusquely, old bones creaking along with the couch, and walked out of the room. A heavy sigh made its slow crawl from between slightly parted lips.

"Did you see me, Uncle Don?"

He snapped his attention back to the girl in front of him. Her eyes were his brother's and though it hurt him every single time to look directly into that reminder of his absence, he pressed past the cowardice. The last few years had taught him a strength he wished he never had to master.

She twirled the wooden sword up and around, switching between her three fingered hands and repeated the kata once more in case he didn't see. Her movements held a grace that belied the fact that she was only four. The plating on her shoulder blades shifted with her arms, her bare feet ghosted across the living room floor without a sound.

So much of their mutant genetics had dominated the human. As if aggressively asserting its dominant role in the new bend of evolution's baffling twists and turns. Yet, he could see her there, too. But it was a subtle thing. Karai's spirit remained in the movements, in the turn of a head during a witty response, too old and nearly too sharp to come from the mouth of such a young child. She was quick and charming and cunning. Like her mother.

Donatello clapped as she finished. In the kitchen, he heard Mikey chatting happily with April as they fixed the snacks. Don moved from the sofa to their father who was soundly sleeping through the entire production. He placed a worn hand on the frail shoulder and ancient eyes, watering and glassy, opened to peer at him.

"Leonardo?"

Donatello smiled gently. He shook his head.

"Donatello, then." Splinter smiled up at him as a child looking for praise for getting an answer correct. Donatello nodded. Then he helped his aging father up from the pile of cushions that he reclined on in the corner.

"You missed it all, Papa Splinter," KoKoa said with a disappointed pout.

Donatello reached out and stroked the top of her bare head down to her smooth cheek. "He saw, KoKo."

"How? His eyes were closed."

"He's a master, remember. Nothing escapes him."

She looked at him suspiciously, but knew her Uncle Don never lied. He was the smartest person in the world. And never, ever lied. She spun around and chopped at the air, dispatching further invisible enemies with a loud 'kee-yah!' Don assisted Splinter towards his room, the day had been exhausting for him, no doubt. Simple things were becoming more and more tiring for the old rat. But as they approached the door to his room, he paused, watching the small girl. A tremor went through him and Don tensed.

"Are you okay, Master Splinter?" he asked quietly in his father's ear.

"She is so much like him."

Don's face softened. His father's moments of clarity were a rare thing recently, but he clung to them when they emerged. "Yes, she really is. He would be so proud of her."

"Have you heard from Karai? Does she know when Leo is coming home?" he asked hopefully.

Donatello froze. His father's increasing senility was getting worse. It had been two years since the Shredder found Leo and Karai's secret home. Two years since Leo had come home, half-starved, barely able to stand on his feet, the child in his arms, weak with mal-nourishment. After securing his child in the care of his family, he had relayed how he and Karai had spent the last six years traveling through Japan in secret, hiding from humans, the Foot . . . from her father.

His injuries had been severe and neglected to a point of infection setting in, but Donatello still believed that if Karai had survived the attack, his brother would have fought harder to recover. And eventually, would have. Instead, he let go. Choosing to venture into the unknown in search of his heart's deepest love rather than to remain here in a world without her, left to raise their child alone. Perhaps he felt KoKoa would be better off with three father-figures instead of one broken true father.

Donatello opened his mouth, but had no idea what to say in response. Luckily for him, April came into the room then with Mikey. His younger brother scooped a squealing KoKoa up into his arms and spun her around.

"KoKo! Where's my marshmallows? I need marshmallows to go with my KoKo!" he threw her into the air and her laughter was like music.

April's gaze fell on him with a knowing look. She quickly insinuated herself between Don and Splinter and helped him into the room. Murmuring soft wordless, comforting noises to him as she did. Donatello rested his shell against the wall, feeling as if a heavy load had just been taken from his shoulders. She'd been so good with Splinter this entire time. Don was lucky to have her in his life. He fingered the gold ring hanging from the chain around his neck. More than lucky.

He stood up, knowing that despite the chance to relax, he had to see if Raphael was okay. Out of all of them, he'd taken his brother's death the hardest. He found him sitting on the balcony, leaning heavily scarred arms over the metal railing, peering out over the hazy twilight of the city beyond. Several bottles lined the cement floor next to Raphael's chair. A half empty one was lightly held between his fingers. Donatello eyed the bottles warily and then sat on the lawn chair next to him.

"Checkin' up on me?"

Don kept his gaze out over the rooftops. He shrugged, knowin Raph could see it out of the corner of his eye.

"I'm fine."

"I know."

"Go inside and be with your family, then."

"Raph," the word was a heavy sigh.

He drained the rest of his bottle and opened his fingers, letting it drop straight down. Distantly, they heard it shatter on the cement sidewalk below. He turned to Don, eyes dull and glazed. No fire there for a long time.

"Leave it, bro. There's nothin' to say."

"I just think that maybe if you'd talk about-"

Raphael huffed. "You think talkin' about Leo leaving us for Karai, disappearin' for years without us knowin' if he's okay, if he's hurt-"

"He wrote to us all the time," Don interrupted, defending Leonardo.

"He left us."

"We were in our thirties, Raph."

Raphael pinched his mouth shut. Donatello knew he should just let Raph get it off his chest, but couldn't deal with the skewed view his brother had on the situation.

"It ain't gonna change nothin'." He was quiet for a bit. Then when Donatello thought the conversation was done, he added quietly, "Didn't try an' fight. Just gave up. For her."

He rested his head on his forearms and said nothing more. Donatello sat there, unable to reach his brother, so lost in his own grief, much as his father was lost in a jumble of half remembered reality and dreams. He didn't know what to say. That much was true. In the end, Leonardo's love for Karai really did end him.

From inside, the tinkling sound of laughter broke out over the distant sounds of traffic. KoKoa: Love of the Heart. The impossible child. The remaining living memory of their brother alive and kicking just a few feet away gave Donatello the strength to move forward. Mikey had no trouble, it seemed. He found comfort in how much KoKoa was like Leonardo. Donatello was trying. Raphael couldn't bear to look at her for more than a few minutes at a time and one day, he knew she would wonder why her Uncle Raph hated her. Donatello sighed. Some things never seemed to change. He rubbed his face hard. He'd cross that bridge when he got there.

He considered Leonardo giving up. Raphael wasn't wrong. Leonardo had no will to live without Karai. Don wanted to, but couldn't tell Raph just then that he would do the same for April. If something took her life, he would not want to live in a world where she didn't exist. He would not harm himself, but . . . he wouldn't fight to live, either. He rose up on weak legs and clapped Raph on one shoulder, rubbed it and left him to his pain. Raph was right. There was nothing to say, after all.

Life was cruel. Love was a slow acting poison without antidote.

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**A/N: **Listening to_ 'The Blower's Daughter'_ by Damien Rice while writing this.

so sad.


	3. Misdeeds with Good Intentions

**A/N:** For an anonymous who wanted a CaseyxKarai story. May not be what they wanted but I had to have the two meet. And what better way for that to happen than with paving the road to hell with a good deed, eh?

My take on Karai is a blend of Lisbeth Salander from the books The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and Faith from Buffy. Casey, well, Casey is always just my mayhem causing, good intention filled tough guy. He means well. He really does. A mix of universes. Rated T for violence and swears.

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**Misdeeds with Good Intentions**

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The blade cut through the layers of cotton and flesh up into organs, pulsing vital and frantic. Karai smiled into the punk's face as he sputtered and whined. She twisted and pulled it down and free. He collapsed at her feet in a wet heap. She flicked the sword, flinging the boy's blood free from the glinting blade. It spattered across the gray bricks like an exclamation. Pivoting, she turned as the other Purple Dragon raced down the alley, knocking garbage cans behind him in a sad attempt to stall her pursuit.

"I love it when they run," she said and with a skip took off after him.

It had been a slow night. No muggings. No calls for help. Not even an illegal transaction among scum bags. Casey was bored. His mask sat on top of his mussed hair, baseball bat horizontal across his knees where he sat on the backrest of a park bench. A low riding vehicle came up the street and he straightened up. But it continued on its way without pause and Casey slumped. What he wouldn't give for some action.

As if fate heard his silent plea, a Purple Dragon emerged, racing out of the alley to Casey's left like a drunken bat out of hell. Casey cocked a brow and pursed his lips. The guy didn't even see him. He was in a panic; coming straight at him. The chains around his neck jangled as he ran, looking over his shoulder at whomever was pursuing him. Languidly, Casey dropped his mask over his face and stuck the bat out, effectively tripping the man. He went down face first, skidding painfully across the slush covered sidewalk.

"Now where you off to in such a hurry?" Casey asked, voice muffled slightly from the mask.

The man was not much older than Casey. Stringy blond hair stuck to his forehead and the side of his face. He clutched at a parcel held against his chest with a hand wearing a fingerless studded glove.

"I ain't done nothin'!" he screamed at Casey as he slung the bat over and onto one broad shoulder.

He tipped his head. "That so. Then why you runnin' like that? Cops on your ass? What, you rob someplace?"

"N-No!" The man crabbed backwards, hands and heels digging through the muck and gray snow until his back hit a wire mesh garbage receptacle. "I-I don't have to tell you nothin'! But I didn't – I mean – we were just minding our own business -"

Casey pointed with the end of his bat cutting the man's rambling off abruptly. "Then what's that?" Casey crouched. His right knee popped out from the torn jeans he wore, his free hand held the bat like a walking stick, end buried in the slush next to him. "Now, don't be lyin' to me. I don't take kindly to liars. Or thieves."

"It-It's a gift!"

"Aw, you got me a present? That's awful sweet of ya." Casey rose up, chuckling darkly from behind his mask.

The man sputtered and gripped the package firmly with one arm. He shook his head vehemently. Then with a quaking hand he pulled a phone out of his pocket, before Casey could knock it away he pressed a button. The bat struck his wrist. He howled and whimpered. But then fell silent, eyes wide.

"Oh, fuck!"

"Playing with a girl's toys without permission isn't nice."

Casey wheeled around at the feminine voice. His blue eyes roved up and down the lithe body of the woman standing a few yards away. She was slim, but something in the way she held herself told him she was athletic. Knee high boots covered black form fitting pants. A dark red caplet covered the rest. One hand was perched on a jutting hip. Over her forearm was a gleaming silver gauntlet. Her face was hidden behind a hood, but Casey could just make out the pouting bottom lip, painted red like her cloak.

"You, uh, know this creep?"

She inclined her head. "He has something of mine."

Casey spun around. His eyes flashed with manic glee. "That so?"

The man looked from the mystery woman back to Casey with a desperate expression. He held up his aching wrist, pointing at her. His finger shook.

"That's a lie! Sh-She's the one . . ."

Casey drove his fist down and grabbed the man and hoisted him up by the front of his shirt. He brought him close to his own face. The gang member's toes hung inches off the ground. His legs kicked weakly.

"I'm gonna give you a chance, tonight, Goober. 'Cuz I'm feelin' generous." He patted the man's chest with the end of the bat, then pointed at the woman standing behind them. "You give the nice lady back her package and apologize and I just might not cave in your skull."

The man whimpered. His watering eyes bounced between Casey's, shadowed by the mask. They hung in tense silence for a second.

"I c-can't . . ."

"Too bad," Casey replied and dropped the man. He brought his bat up and around to swing; twirling the end of it as he cinched up his grip.

"Ah, fuck it! Fuck it! I ain't getting paid enough for this shit. Just take it!"

He scrambled and with two hands pushed the parcel off his chest and flung it at the woman wearing the cloak. She caught it without a sound, turned it and braced it under one arm. The young man clambered in a circle and started to climb to his feet. He took off running without a glance back. Casey huffed and twisted towards the mystery lady.

"Hey, uh, you okay, then?" he asked.

Slowly she pulled her hood from her face. Green eyes peered at him curiously from under heavy black liner. Her jet-black hair fell in thick razor cut bangs over her brows and alongside her face. She had several piercings and her face was Asiatic. Narrow lips curled into an appreciative smile. Casey swallowed, suddenly feeling like he was being sized up like a slabs of beef at Merken's Butcher Shop where he worked part time.

"I think so. Thanks to your help." She huffed in appreciation and tipped her chin towards him. "Nice get up. What are you supposed to be anyway?"

Casey swung his bat up over his back and shucked it into the golf bag overloaded with various other sporting equipment. He shrugged and crossed his arms over his wide chest, doing his best to strike an impressive pose.

"Just your friendly neighborhood vigilante. Keepin' the fine streets of New York safe for pretty ladies like yourself."

She smirked at that. "Keep it up. You're doing a great job." And with that she turned and disappeared back into the alley from where she appeared.

Casey blew out a breath. "Damn. Where'd she come from?" he asked himself and wondered if he'd ever see her again.

Doubling back, Karai pulled the brown paper from the parcel and tore into the protective wrappings until she could peer inside the box. Her smile widened. She had no doubt that she would have caught up to the Purple Dragon and claimed this package. But the masked man had done her a favor and made the hunt a bit more interesting. She wondered about him. Wondered what he looked like under that mask. Lingered a bit on the long, firm legs clad in the torn jeans, the wide breadth of his chest and shoulders. She shivered pleasantly and wondered if she'd see him again. She hoped so. He was . . . interesting. And Karai enjoyed things that intrigued her.

The Hun had been tracking Baxter Stockman for weeks. He'd gone underground after his last punishment by her father. There were rumors that he fell in league with some government agency and was working on developing new strains of the Utrom's mutagen. Something her father was very keen on obtaining.

Karai had learned that the precious vials of altered mutagen had been stolen by the Purple Dragons this morning from her informant inside the gang. They had been lucky and with much risk and pained effort, they had managed to intercept delivery of this set of vials before it could reach its final destination. And now they were hers. And she would be the one to deliver this precious cargo to her father. This prized gift of loyalty. The elation she felt over stealing this moment from the Hun was nearly overwhelming. His pathetic Purple Dragons were useless and weak. He should have known better than to send a bunch of boys to do a woman's job.

She looked up as the young man rounded the corner. His pale face shot up and his feet staggered to a halt.

"Oh, shit. Oh, no. Please. You got what you wanted. I won't tell them it was you. Please!"

Karai smiled and pulled her blade free; still stained from his comrades blood.

"I love it when they beg."

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**A/N:**There needs to be more between these two and I intend it. heh heh, but back to my other tales. . . hope you enjoyed this one.


	4. All Things Burn - Even Impossible Dreams

_"__Of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are, "It might have been."_ - Kurt Vonnegut

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**All Things Burn – Even Impossible Dreams**

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It glittered gold and amber, sparkling like heated drops of coiling copper falling from the ceiling, slowly and in undulating patterns. It would have been beautiful if it hadn't been falling down over her head and shoulders, her back and legs; landing with tender precision to sear and roast what should have been porcelain and soft. The scent of burning cloth filled her nose, sharp and bright, but behind it the thick aroma of sizzling flesh; the taste of it bright and tangy in the back of her mouth. Hideous and final. She gagged and dragged herself forward. The smoke lulled in heavy loping bundles above and around her, drifting lower, stealing away the fresher air closer to the floor.

She pinched her eyes; lashes coated in ash, face gray with it; lips cracked, mouth dry. The pain was a constant agonized throb and it didn't matter how it felt as though her bones were being charred with each passing second. It didn't matter that the hair that she was once so proud of, long silken drapes of ebony, was gone; the first to go up so quickly with terrifying speed, when the flames licked the back of her blouse and the silk was eaten like it was doused in lighter fluid. All that mattered was the wailing shriek of her baby girl, imprisoned within the crib; unable to escape the blaze; helpless. Her blackened fingers dug into the wooden floor boards as she inched her way, unseeing, nearly blinded by the heat, into the nursery. She would not let her girl burn. She would not allow her daughter to be fed to the flames of her mistakes.

A cry of triumph erupted, alien and hoarse from her parched throat, as Tang Shen's fingers found the base of the crib. She lurched forward, choking, lungs screaming from the smoke, drowning in ash. It was a struggle to sit up, but she managed. Support beams cracked like thunder around her. Wide eyes turned over one blistering shoulder. From the wall of fire a demon emerged. She quailed but remained frozen in place, even as her flesh melted and her tendons and fat sizzled and popped like kindling in a fireplace.

The beast took the form of a man, towering above her; impossible to stand unaffected by the roaring immensity of the fire, but there he stood. A shadow wreathed in flame; a black phantom forged from the depths of hell. Her hand reached out to touch the fabric of his hakama if only to reassure herself that this was no delusion brought on by smoke inhalation and her imminent demise. But charred fingers gripped soft fabric and the baby's wails cut off even as her own howl of protest took up the cry of denial and impotent pleas.

She felt the leg beneath the fabric turn and the muscle shift as he crouched. A rough hand was brought to her cheek, cupping it delicately, and his eyes emerged from behind a mask and they were more sorrowful and full of more regret than she could ever understand or bear to witness. She knew his name as well as she knew her heart and tears that couldn't withstand the heat of the blaze burned and evaporated before they could spill forward over her grime covered cheeks.

And as he remained there, his flesh was burning. Half of his face engulfed. It was rippling, curling in blisters, covered in flames, and he only paused, frozen in that tender moment, above pain, above time and reality. As if through stubborn willfulness, he refused to acknowledge the pain just so that he could have this moment with her. He gave her what he could, a brush of love transmitted from the depths of his soul through his fingertips straight to the fluttering heart in her breast. The message was clear. He could not save her, but the child would be spared. And for that, she was thankful.

"Saki," her voice thready and weak broke the spell.

As quickly as the specter of the man she once loved above all others appeared, he was gone, vanished back into the flames, swallowed away and with him, her daughter. Her one true reason for giving this life forced upon her a chance. For succumbing to the wills of her parents and subjugating her own passion-filled desires in place of familial honor, fealty and respect.

Shen fell forward, too weak to hold herself up any longer. Everything she loved was now consumed or stolen away to the hands of fate. What was once her life was now devoured by an accident. A slip of the tongue, an argument and an overturned candle. The house groaned around her, voicing her spirit's descent into despair, as her lungs lurched and strained, no longer pulling in air, but only smoke.

Through the thunderous howl of the inferno around her she thought she heard him calling her name. And she knew him as well. Husband. Yoshi. A good man. A fine man. One who did not deserve a wife such as herself. His desperate voice calling out to her dimmed and grew more distant. Whether she was too weak and injured to respond or too laden down with guilt and regret, she only lay there, listening to the roar of the flames and accepting her fate. Resigned to it. Her heart had never been his and for her duplicity against her husband and her family, she was being punished, of that she was sure.

Still, in her last moments, she prayed that her love would remember her from the days when they were young, so impossibly young and free to pretend there were no restraints, no demands, no class distinctions to separate and cast judgment against them; a place where their love was a thing of power and protection. She prayed that he would raise her daughter, Miwa, with honor and always protect her. That her daughter would not make the same mistakes as her foolish mother; of trusting in the power of love to overcome all of life's cruel indifference and unfairness. There was always hope. That fools' beacon of impossible dreams.

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**A/N:** This came to me and I just had to write it. I hope you enjoyed. I really tried to do my best with the actual descriptions and such.


	5. Father vs Sensei

**A/N:** I would imagine that Splinter would have many conflicting moments where he'd wrestle with what is right and what is needed alongside what his children should endure and simple compassion for them as their father-figure. This is a little character study based off an instant plot bunny I got as I started to read Demonsweat's amazing story: Chewing On Glass.

Rated T for subject matter.

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**Father vs Sensei**

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He shook his head, grimacing and shaking.

"Do not spit it out."

He shook his head again, harder; bottom lip white with pressure; eyes crinkled shut.

"Do not."

His fists were shaking on his thighs.

"Swallow it."

He froze. With one hitching, struggling inhale through his nose, he ducked his head and swallowed the bitter, pungent pulp; falling forward onto his sweating palms and groaning, gasping and shuddering. He was going to throw up.

"Keep it down, Leonardo."

Sweat dribbled down the back of his neck, tickling as it wove a path over his shoulders to pool at his clavicle before running down to the top join of his plastron. He shook his head; once, then again. It was no use, he was going to be sick. His cramping stomach rolled and jumped.

"Ahhh, ah. _Ugh_."

"Control yourself."

He was trying. He really was. But his body tried to reject the sliver of poisoned mushroom and he gagged and retched. The rancid bile rose, burning his throat. He clamped his hands over his mouth and with wide eyes, he looked up at Master Splinter, kneeling before him with a disappointed expression, softened only by incremental degrees around his piercing eyes. It took all of his will power, but he swallowed back the rising liquid; leaving a bitter tang at the rear of his tongue.

"You must control your body, Leonardo."

His eyelids fluttered and he nodded. He dropped his hands and stared at the table in front of them. There were four more wedges to still ingest. His eyes burned and he resisted the urge to rub them; already feeling as though he showed too much weakness in front of his master as it was; nearly vomiting a moment ago.

"This is not just a practice in mastery over your physical form, we must build your immunity to toxins. By ingesting small doses of common poisons used by ninja, you will not only become stronger, you will better serve our clan as leader. It is a necessary step in your advancement." As he spoke, Master Splinter wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Leonardo or himself. He shifted in irritation, bristling his whiskers.

Leonardo worked his tongue back and forth against the roof of his mouth, trying and failing, to rid himself of the acrid after taste. They had been doing this once a week since the start of summer. Building up the size and types of poisons as he built his body's resistance to the substances. It was a long painful process. He pressed his palm against his stomach and pitched forward as a cramp sent shooting pains through his middle. Oh no. His bowels burned and he had to use the bathroom. Now.

"Leonardo," Splinter said with a warning note in his voice as Leonardo climbed quickly to stand.

He hesitated for only a moment, a desperate look on his face, eyes wide and glassy, then turned and ran out of his Sensei's chambers. Splinter watched him go and closed his eyes. He glanced at the white saucers lined up horizontally in front of him. A sliver, no more than an inch long, hardly a quarter of an inch thick, of toxic mushroom lay at the center of each one. A pang of regret stabbed him, but he shoved it aside. With a soft grunt, he climbed to stand and stretched his aching lower back. He crossed the room and moved through the lair to stand outside the lavatory. He raised his hand to knock but stopped. From inside he could hear his son's distress. He dropped his arm with a sigh. He twisted around and began to pace.

Leonardo's brothers were going about their routines. Raphael was working on the vehicles with Donatello in the garage, he could hear the steady bass of the rough music they were listening to reverberate through the bricks around him. Michelangelo was in his room, sketching, no doubt with those tiny ear things tucked inside his head, lost to the outside world, listening to the rhythmic beats of the dance music he so enjoyed. In other words, doing the things that normal teenage boys should be engaged in.

The needle-like poke of regret hit him again and he gritted his teeth against it. There was no room for weakness here. This country was made for leisure and pursuits of pleasure. It was fine for human teens to engage in the mindless activities that made up their day to day lives. They could allow themselves such indulgence. His children could not afford to be so contented. They had enemies that would stoop to any level to cause them harm. He was doing this to strengthen his child. Besides, had he not himself done the very same thing when he was fourteen, the very same age as Leonardo? Under the careful tutelage of his own master? No. He would not allow the easy culture of this land deter him. He would not feel bad about this, not when he was asking his son to do what he had done. He would never ask of them what he, himself, would not be willing to do.

And yet, he paused in his pacing, cocking one ear, as he heard his child trying to muffle his pained groans and cries from the bathroom, he could not help but wrestle with some doubt. He shook himself. Ears flattened against his skull, Splinter reminded himself that he was their master. It was no simple thing. He could not allow himself to go soft on them when they needed to be toughened and strengthened for what was ahead. They needed him to do what was necessary, no matter how uncomfortable, how challenging. He knew what was best. He had to think of the future as well as the greater good of the clan. Leonardo was to take his place at the head of the family one day. He needed to mold Leonardo into what he needed him to be. He squared his shoulders and rapped at the door with one knuckle. There was a whimper and then another muffled groan.

In a firm voice he said, "Leonardo. When you are finished, you will attend me in my chambers to finish the task." He paused. Then, "Do you understand me?"

There was a stretch of silence and then just as Master Splinter was growing agitated laced with the chilled touch of concern, the door cracked open. Splinter stepped back. His son was pale and trembling. He swallowed several times as he leaned on the door frame; his gangly teenage body; still growing and filling out into the large hands and feet; still awkward in his katas; still more boy than man. Large eyes gazed up at him, and if there was a plea for him to end his suffering, Splinter could not oblige it. He could not. His heart galloped and stumbled as he fought with himself. He was torn down the middle. Father and Sensei. Solicitude and Logic. Wrestling with tradition and what needed to be done versus tenderness and the easy path of ignorance and wishing it didn't have to be this way; knowing they had no choice in the matter, not really. And yet, his paternal instincts were searing holes through the walls of his rigid adherence to necessity and reality.

In the end, it was compassion that won out.

"Unless . . . you wish to be done, for today," the gentle words were spoken as he reached out for his son who stepped forward on wobbling legs. Was it cowardice disguised as kindness that led him to place the burden of such a decision on his young son's shoulders? For in the back of his mind, he knew that Leonardo would not deny him any request. But just by offering the choice, in fact, uttering it alone, was an act of such opposition to everything he had been ingrained with it was nearly painful to do so.

Leonardo blinked and hesitated not a second before replying in his clear, young voice, "No, Sensei. I will finish."

And though his father's indulgent heart endured the wounds inflicted by his wrathful warrior's spirit for being weak; for allowing this culture to soften him; for becoming less than the rigid being that he once strived to evolve into; he was gladdened by Leonardo's response. He blazed with pride for this child and his amazing strength of will; his son; the young warrior; the future leader of their clan.

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**A/N:**Thank you for reading! Don't forget to review!


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